


Lily in Hand

by icouldnotsee (herprettysleeper)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Beware of asshole boyfriends, Dean is a shy little sweetheart, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 08:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herprettysleeper/pseuds/icouldnotsee
Summary: In which the girl who’s always in for flowers at 8:30 sharp in the morning is late, and Dean senses that something is up.





	Lily in Hand

She comes into the flower shop at ten forty-three on a Saturday.

Dean waited since eight thirty, and he’s been a little worried. The girl always comes in at half past eight sharp, daily and without fail.

Since he’s moved here, she’s been a constant customer. The first day he opened the place, he’d been pacing inside the store, wondering why the hell his interests had to be in this dying business when she came careening in, all yellow sundress and big smiles. She’d gone up to the counter, placed her hands on it, leaned in like she’d known him all her life and said, “Could you help me pick out a bouquet?”

So he’d helped her. And she came back the day after, and after, and he’d worried about why the hell she needed so many flowers until she told him that she was an event planner. Occasionally she’d ask for huge orders. Most days, just a bouquet. But always,  _always,_ at eight-thirty sharp.

So now, she’s almost three hours late, but he’s happy she’s here.

“Thought I’d miss you,” he says as she approaches the desk, prim and proper as ever.

“Never.” She gives him a smile that falters, if only slightly. He notices the dark circles and puffiness under her eyes and the redness in them.

“You’re alright?”

“Just overslept, it’s okay.” She waves a hand. “Uh, will you help me pick out a bouquet?’

“No problem.”

Her selections end up with a mix of yellow freesias and white lilies. Innocence in friendship and innocence in death. Not healthy, at all.

“So,”  _please don’t think I’m probing, please don’t think I’m probing,_ “Any plans?”

“No, nothing. Just...they’re just for me, this time.”

Most people don’t know flower meanings—most  _florists_ don’t—so he thinks that he shouldn’t be so concerned. Doesn’t matter if she’s an event planner who’s been coming here for months. Doesn’t matter about that one time he picked out geraniums because the red-violet of them had matched the set, and she’d joked, “Are you calling me stupid?”

His mind goes through color meanings. Yellow and white. Happiness and purity. That might be even worse.

She thanks him, slides over a few tens, and practically runs out of the store as he’s counting. There’s twenty fucking dollars extra in here. “Hey, Y/N, I think you—” she’s gone.

He exits the store, starts walking to the right, since that’s where she generally comes from. It’s twenty bucks—if he accidentally dropped that much money, he’d want it back too. He sees a glimpse of the denim jacket she was wearing, and starts relieved, “You accidentally gave me twenty bucks extra, thought I could catch you before...” Oh.

She’s crying quietly, leaning against the brick wall of the shoe shop next door.

She straightens up when she sees him, tries to wipe the tears out of her eyes. “Sorry, sorry.” She takes the cash and shoves it into a pocket. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He hesitates, he’s gonna kill himself for this later. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ll be fine. Always am.”

Except neither of them believes it, because she’s here and she was crying against a brick wall seconds ago.

“I—if you ever want to talk.”

“I’ll think about it.”

She won’t think about it.

He heads back into his shop instead and stares at the different colored roses for a while before making a decision.

~*~

“Get the hell up, buster,” Lisa says to you.

“Buster? The fuck is this, the fifties?”

“Up.”

“It’s eight-thirty, I have a hangover and you’re annoying me,” you say, though your conscience screams that waking up this late is an atrocity, all the  _emails_ you haven’t checked. Your business is probably beginning to crumble. You care, but not enough.

Lisa rolls her eyes. “You woke me up at four in the morning once so we would be six hours early to our flight to Cali last summer. You wake up at five o’clock ninety-eight percent of the time.”

“So?”

“We have a baby shower to attend. Up, babe, places to be.”

“I—”

She gives you a look, and the bullshit in your response fades, leaving honesty that has your voice cracking.

“I don’t wanna see him.”

“Hey.” Her voice is softer this time. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Maybe Lisa’s right, except for the small fact that that advice doesn’t help you  _now._

You don’t want to see Trent. You don’t want to think about him looking into your eyes, or kissing you, or...goddamn, so many things. You don’t want to be alone while remembering being loved.

Unless.

_Unless._

“We’ve gotta be there at noon, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s a two-hour drive, and we should catch up with everyone before the service actually begins—”

“Give me half an hour?”

Lisa sighs. “Yeah, sure.”

~*~

She’s late again, by fifteen minutes this time, and she sprints into the shop, skids to a stop at the counter. It’s screwing up his sense of time.

She’s here, though, which makes Dean’s heart rise a little bit, so he starts to turn around grab something when she says:

“I know we don’t know each other that well, but I have a huge favor to ask.”

So he stops. “Shoot.”

“Would you be up for about four hours of acting and decent food starting at noon today? And a lot of sitting. Then standing. Then relatives. It’s a really bad deal,” she admits.

“Are you last-minute inviting me to a family reunion?”

“Sort of? Baby shower.”

“And?”

“And?”

“There’s usually more. Correct that, there’s always more.”

“....pretendtobemyboyfriendprettypleaseI’msosorry?”

“See? That’s the ‘more.’“

“Okay, I understand that this is idiotic and petty and stupid and cowardly and a bunch more adjectives, but—”

“Sure.”

“—and I probably sound like a lunatic—wait, what?”

“I’ll go. My kid brother, Sammy, his wife Jess has family stuff all the time, and I go. Can’t be all bad.”

“Really?” Her voice is up an octave, eyes all lit, and he feels like he just saved the world.

“Sure. Is there an address, or?”

“Um, yeah, can I—thanks,” she says, writes on the index card he offered with his pen. “That’s my apartment, and this is the place. If you could be there by noon, you’d be saving my life.”

“Gladly,” he says, and she smiles. He feels all warm and shit. Not healthy.

“So I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah!” He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Definitely.”

“Thank you, Dean, you’re a godsend.”

“It’s no trouble.”

She smiles, then, “Well...I should get going.”

“Cool, yeah—hey, wait for a second?”

She turns around. He picks up the single coral rose he wanted to give her when she walked in.

“Here,” he says. Thrusts it out like a shy five-year-old showing their parents their artwork. “It’s not—it means—”

“Friendship, modesty, and sympathy,” she says softly.

He looks down, nods a little.

She takes it. “Thank you.” It’s quieter that time.

“It’s all good.”

~*~

_You’re tired._

_It’s been a day chock-full of bitchy employers. The last straw was the employer bitching about the specific type of cake you had to order._

_But you managed to get through the day, pick up a few things from Publix Trent said he needed, and you’re exhausted. Being alone isn’t good for you, and Lisa and Matt are out for a date night, and there’s no one you can call at this hour. So you headed to your boyfriend’s place. He likes you coming over. You think. Doesn’t matter, you’re outside his door._

_You use your last bit of strength to shove your key into the lock, turn it._

_He’s in the kitchen._

_A girl’s moaning. They’re naked. She’s sitting on the kitchen counter, her head lolled back in pleasure. They’ve knocked over the sugar you poured into the jar last week._

_They haven’t heard you._

_“I brought the deodorant you wanted me to pick up,” you say, just loud enough to hear. Your voice is even. Clear. Steady. Just a little wobble._

_There are tears streaming down your face, running across your cheeks, into your mouth. You wipe it with the back of your hand, drop the plastic bag on the ground, and turn around._

_“Oh, shit, Y/N—”_

_“You two are—oh my God, you fucking bastard—”_

_She voices the rest of your thoughts, but you’re walking away. Out the door. One step, another._

_Away from everything you’ve seen._

_Away from months of your life that you’ll never get back._

~*~

It’s a quarter to twelve. Lisa’s family and yours go back, and both your mothers grill you.

“So, Y/N,” Lisa’s mom says, “Where’s your beau?”

Nineteen fifties it is.

“He’s on his way,” you promise, saying something about him not being able to ride with you for some bullshit reason they barely buy.  _Please get here, Dean._

The minutes go buy, and the grilling is getting worse. They ask Lisa and Matt about children, goodness gracious.

“You should be married by now,” your mother says, masquerading chiding as a joke. “You’ve got a biological clock.”

You fantasize about being dropped into the Sun. It would be such a nice, instant burn.

“Y/N,” Dean says. His hand is on the small of your back steadying you, and thank Jesus Christ of motherfucking Nazareth. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“Glad you’re here anyway.” You smile up at him, and you get a sweet pull of lips and laugh lines that make him look even prettier than he already was.

Your mother is looking him up and down. She makes an “mmm” sound in approval, which should be gross, but, well, she’s not wrong.

“I take it you’re Y/N’s boyfriend.”

“Yes, that’s me. Dean Winchester.” He smiles. It’s charming.

Yup, it’s time to burn your thoughts, immediately.

“I’m Y/N’s mom.”

“I never would’ve guessed.”

Charm- _ier._

“He’s a gentleman too! Y/N, I like this one.”

And you’re blushing, with a little “Come on, Mom” when Dean’s hand touches yours and sends a jolt uneasiness through your body. No. You don’t have time for crushes.

Your hands slowly knit together. You resist looking down.

He squeezes it, just a little for reassurance.

Then your uncles want to talk to you, and he says quietly, so only you can hear, “Am I doing okay?”

“Great. A plus. Accolades.”

He smiles, and  _shit,_ there goes your maturity.

You sit through gift giving to the girl, Jo. You don’t know her that well but in your huge, largely extended family, it doesn’t matter. From what you’ve seen she’s a pistol with a heart. You haven’t seen Trent yet. Count your blessings.

Jo’s husband keeps kissing her temple and she keeps smiling at him. Your heart only aches a little.

Then the shower devolves into more of an overall hangout, with a table of condiments and junk food set up, and a grill. The kids are running around and playing, and at some point, music starts playing and the older people laugh in delight and dance with each other.

“Hey!” your mom calls out to you and Dean. “Go dance with them.

Nope. Nopitey nope.

“I’m gonna go use the bathroom,” you tell him as a save, and he offers you a small smile. You’re all fluttery inside. Shame on you.

You wash your hands, reminiscing as you make your way through the house to join everyone outside. You’re going down the porch steps, and then you’re back in the group of people near the grill, and you decide it’s been an okay day. It’s a pleasant day, just enough sun and airy and Dean-filled. He smells like Irish Spring and a hint of cologne and undercurrent of  _man._  It’s wonderful.

Wonderful, until you see him.

Fuck this tight-knit community.

Because it’s the reason why you have to watch Trent’s hand on some other girl’s waist, and it’s the reason you have to watch them smile at each other, and the reason and the reason why you got your heart involved in the first place.

“Hey. You’re good?” Dean says.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” There isn’t much life in the statement.

He traces your line of vision, and you look down quickly, but he’s already seen the person you were fixated on.

“Y/N.”

“I know, I’m being stupid and hung up—”

“No, you’re not, and that’s not what I was going to say,” he says firmly. “Thing is, I don’t know your history. But I do know that this whole thing doesn’t have to be more painful than it has to be, so,” he shifts his feet, “there’s always the option of looking like fools with everyone else.”

“You mean…” you glance at the group of people dancing on the lawn. Jo’s laughing with her new husband.

His tone is light when he says, “Care to dance?’

You may feel a bit like crap, but it’s Dean. He’s got to know that the answer to dancing with him to crappy music in someone’s lawn was gonna be yes.

He takes your hand and leads you into the small group of half elderly, half a mix of young kids and your-age people. He holds you all professional, like this is a ballroom dance.

You both step on each other’s feet far too often, and you enjoy the dance a little too much.

He says, “Sorry I suck.”

You laugh. “Sorry I suck too.”

His lips pull up at the corner. You say, “This isn’t so bad.”

“There are worse things. This is more a scale one earthquake than Hiroshima though.”

You smile. Touch your head against his chest for a moment.

When you’re staring into his eyes again, his flicker down to your lips, just for a moment. Your heart’s soaring, shit. Stupid sweet boy with laugh lines and oh my God, freckles.

“Worse things,” you breathe out.

~*~

Eight-thirty, and Dean’s stocking the shop when she comes speeding into the shop.

“Incoming!”

She collides with him, and they careen into a display which—thank the  _Lord_ —he manages to steady with one hand before it falls over.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice high.

He chuckles. “It’s okay.” He helps her up, and she brushes her hands against her jeans. He’s seen her do it, smooth her hands down her pants or the skirt of her dress on occasion.

“I wanted to say thanks for the baby shower. So, thanks.”

“No, it’s cool. Haven’t been dressed up in a while. Might’ve been losing my touch.”

She laughs. He should do it. He should get himself together and ask her out. It’s just coffee. If it goes nowhere it won’t matter. He wishes that his nervousness wouldn’t persist anyway.

Except she’s looking at him, all open and quietly happy, and you know what? No one has enough time to wait around waiting for things to fall into place, and that includes him.

“Do you wanna go out for coffee? If you have time. On Sunday maybe? When we’re not working.”

She seems surprised at first, and then...excited. “Yeah! That’s great! I’d love to. Sunday’s great.”

“It’s a date then?”

“Going on my calendar and all.”

He thinks about the baby shower, and the dancing on dew soaked grass. He remembers how she looked in the slowly dimming light as the afternoon progressed.

“Anyway, could you help me with a few bouquets? Surprise party for a girl uptown. The parents love tulips.”

“I’ve got you.”

~*~

A coffee date, a movie date, and a dinner date later, you’re standing outside your apartment.

“I had a great time,” you admit, because it’s true and he’s charming and where he’s been all this time, you don’t know, but thank God he’s here now.

“Me too.”

He could leave now. He doesn’t.

“Is it alright if I kiss you?”

And bam, there goes your heart rate. “Y-yeah, that’s, I’d love to.”

You both close your eyes and lean in, and he presses his lips to yours gently. It’s sweet, his lips soft against yours, fingers gently pushing your hair back behind your ear.

He pulls away slowly, and you both smile a little at each other. He holds your door open.

“Good night,” you say.

“G’night.” Then, a little hopefully, he says, “Eight-thirty?”

You press your lips to his one more time.

“Eight-thirty. Always.”


End file.
